


Closeted

by Hinn_Raven



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Closet Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Hand Jobs, Humor, Insecurity, M/M, Sex Pollen, Smut, Tower of Procreation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 02:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15500355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: What DID Grif and Simmons get up to during the Tower of Procreation?





	Closeted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_taller_tale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/gifts).



> Holy shit I finally wrote it. I think I promised Taller that I'd write this like. a YEAR ago? 
> 
> Also, I can't believe "smut and humor" isn't a tag on ao3 already. c'mon internet! EMBRACE SEX COMEDY. 
> 
> Anyways my version of the TOP is very much just an inhibitions lowering, fun romp time by all.

There’s a lot of things to say about what happens during the Tower of Procreation. The event will be discussed in great detail; the baby boom that follows, the paperwork that they all had to sign, and the hickeys to conceal.

But really, what Grif will always focus on is this: the small, secured closet Simmons is pulling him towards, and the heat that rushes through both of them as they stumble inwards, unable to stop themselves from kissing each other desperately the moment they are no longer visible to everyone around them.

Grif has always wondered, what it would be like to kiss Simmons. He’s spent hours upon hours, probably adding up into entire months thinking about it, thinking about the way his lips get chapped easily and the way he worried his bottom lip with his teeth whenever he gets stressed, which is always, the way his mouth quirks up at one corner when he’s trying not to laugh… Grif has spent a long, long time thinking about that mouth, and what it would feel like against his.

It’s dumb, it’s giddy, it’s stupid, but Grif has been wanting to do this for fifteen years, and the Tower has filled him with the light giddiness. All the anxiety, all the fears, everything that he’s bottled up, used to keep himself away from this, is just…gone.

And he’d watched Carolina deck a private who’d propositioned her on their way to the closet, so…

Simmons wants this too. He wants to be here, pressed against Grif, his mouth hungrily working against Grif’s, his finger’s curled tightly in the orange fabric of Grif’s shirt… he wants this. He wants _Grif_.

And _that’s_ as intoxicating as any Tower.

 Maybe neither of them can admit it, without the Tower making them brave, without the Tower making them bold… but Grif doesn’t feel drunk, doesn’t feel high. Grif feels clearer headed than he has in his life. There’s no nagging voice in the back of his head that this is a mistake, that Simmons could never want him, that this is some sick joke.

Plausible deniability, maybe, because it’s a _sex tower_ , never mind that they passed three card games and a movie marathon on their way.

But that doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Grif is here, with Simmons, and Simmons is groaning already, low and gasping, his hips jolting up against Grif’s as Grif presses a kiss against his pale, easily bruising neck.

 _Fuck_ , that’s Simmons’s dick. And it’s _hard_.

Because of _him_.

If it wouldn’t get things over too fast and break the magic of this moment, Grif would drop right to his goddamn knees and suck Dick Simmons’s dick right then and there, because after over a decade of communal showers and shared bedrooms and just living out of each other’s pockets, Grif has _plans_ for that dick. Plans he has a chance to actually act on.

 _Fuck_ , he kind of wishes they’d been able to get to a bedroom, but Donut had staked out all of the red rooms for some sort of group sex yoga thing, and Grif had barely had time to hide his weed stash, let alone talk Donut out of a room. Caboose’s movie marathon is in the blue rooms, and Grif really couldn’t imagine that there was a room left that wasn’t taken.

So here they were, in a closet, Grif’s back digging into the shelves full of cleaning supplies, his lips all delightfully tingly from kissing Simmons, and the rest of the world falling away rapidly as he reaches down to brush a hand against Simmons’s dick, through his pants.

Grif has heard Simmons’s sex noises before; has heard his frantic attempts to muffle them in the shower, has even dealt with the blushing, embarrassed aftermath.

But _this_ … this is different. This is Simmons’s head falling back, mouth open, his blush racing down past the neckline of his shirt, his eyes fluttering shut, his hips jolting forward, trying to press into Grif’s touch, and Grif stops for a moment, reveling in the fact that _he did that._

“Grif,” Simmons gasps, and well, Grif can’t even stop to think about that, because now he _has_ to kiss Simmons, it’d be against the rules to not.

They’re both hot, so hot, it’s boiling in the closet, and so Grif does the only sensible thing and push Simmons away so he can remove his shirt.

“Grif!” Simmons yelps, and that’s a delightfully familiar sound.

“What?” Grif challenges. “Gonna back out now?” It comes out more raw than he intends, more vulnerable.

Simmons sets his jaw, and for a moment, Grif thinks he’s going to walk out.

But instead Simmons storms over to him, closing the preciously small gap, and grabs both sides of his head and kisses him _hard_ , enough to make Grif’s knees weak.

Simmons pulls away suddenly, flushing and scrambling to remove his own shirt.

“I… um. No. Not backing out.” Simmons says, letting the shirt drop to the floor.

“Oh. Uh, good.”

They stand there for a moment, before they seal the gap again, their lips colliding. It’s more tentative and gentle this time, mouths gliding, tongues exploring, hands uncertain. But warmth floods Grif’s stomach, and he shifts his hips just so, just to make sure that Simmons gets fair warning that the effect is going both ways.

Simmons’s little squeak is adorable, and so Grif gives into temptation and bites down on his bottom lip gently.

The moan that results from that nearly causes Grif to rip off Simmons’s pants right then and there.

“Gr— _Grif_ ,” Simmons gasps, and fuck, Grif is so gone for this idiot.

Grif kisses his neck again, and Simmons—pointy, bony, angular Simmons—goes soft against him, slumping there, the weight of his robot parts pressing down against Grif, pinning him in place.

Grif gives into another temptation and grabs ahold of Simmons’s basically non-existent ass. Simmons lets out another hilarious noise, and so Grif kisses his mouth again, burying his laughter, because if he laughs at Simmons, Simmons won’t get it. Simmons will get all offended and mad and embarrassed and leave, not getting that Grif is only laughing because he’s cute, not because he’s making fun of him.

He kisses Simmons, burying all of those things he can’t say, because it will ruin this, ruin them, ruin the hard lines of Simmons’s shirtless chest pressed against his, the feeling of metal fingers in his hair, the feeling of Simmons’s dick pressing against his stomach, straining against his pants.

Grif has fantasized about this for fifteen years, but he doesn’t know what to do.

Simmons, shockingly, solves this.

“Grif—” Simmons breathes, and then _Simmons touches his dick._

Yes, okay, it’s through Grif’s pants, but Grif’s brain pretty much shorts out, and holy shit Grif basically has to stop himself from coming in his pants like a fucking teenager because _Simmons just touched his dick_.

“Pants,” Grif says, and fuck, they don’t have lube, there’s no real room to maneuver, but fuck it, fuck everything, fuck the Tower and fuck Chorus and fuck fifteen years of pining over his best friend, he wants Simmons and Simmons wants him and they’re high on a lack of inhibitions and freedom from anxiety and _Grif is going to get out of these pants if it kills him._

They both fumble through it, limbs colliding, mouths sloppily meeting because neither of them can bear this, the awkward steps that they need to take before they can actually do this, a giddiness is filling the entire closet, and Grif barely takes a second to spare a glance at Simmons’ dick, which is harder than he’s ever seen it, before they collide again, stark naked and Grif has to be dreaming, because he’s touching Simmons’s dick and biting down on his shoulder and Simmons is touching _his dick_ and moaning his name and the world is bright and hot and warm, the air is scented with cleaning supplies and sex and Grif is falling apart at the seams, white and hot and bright.

Every touch of Simmons is electric, is better than Grif could ever have possibly dreamed, his skinny fingers fumbling and unsure of themselves, but Grif couldn’t care less about Simmons’s sloppy technique, of the hesitation, because it’s _real_.

It’s real and it’s better than Grif could possibly have imagined. Mutual handjobs in a closet isn’t the most romantic, but fuck, it’s everything right now. It’s the sexiest goddamn thing he’s ever experienced.

Grif kisses Simmons again. “ _Fuck,_ Simmons,” he mutters. And then he has to kiss Simmons again, to stop himself from laughing at his own joke.

“ _Grif_ —” Simmons’s real eye is fluttering closed, his eyelashes long and beautiful, his electronic eye glowing bright.

They kiss again, still jerking each other off, moans and groans ripping their way out of their chests, and they shudder in each other’s grasps, pushing each other to the edge.

Simmons comes first, and Grif almost expects him to pull away, but he doesn’t, he just gets a concentrated look on his face, and redoubles his own efforts. Grif leans back against the shelves, biting his lip hard to stop himself from saying anything he might regret later, and a few short moments later, Simmons presses a kiss against his chest, right down the line where Grif’s dark skin becomes the patchwork of Simmons’s, and it’s gentle, it’s soft, it’s completely at odds with the determined way he’s pulling at Grif’s dick, but it pushes him over the edge.

They spend a beautiful, perfect moment in silence, slumped against each other, the stickiness failing to even register. Grif is sleepy and content, pressing his forehead against Simmons’s.

And then, of course, someone starts hammering on the closet door. 

“GRIF! ARE YOU AND SIMMONS IN THERE?”

The two of them jolt apart in that moment, eyes wide, any trace of libido retreating at the realization that Caboose is _right outside the door_.

“NO!” They yell in unison.

“OKAY I WILL TELL TUCKER THAT YOU ARE STILL IN THE CLOSET.”

“Um… someone locked us in here!” Simmons shrieks, grabbing his shirt and holding it up against his chest like a shield, as if his dick isn’t hanging out still.

“OKAY I WILL TELL TUCKER THAT TOO.”

“Go _away_ Caboose!” Grif yells. Then he pauses, because it’s Caboose. “Please!”

“OKAY! HAVE FUN BEING IN THE CLOSET I WILL TELL DONUT WHEN YOU ARE READY TO COME OUT.”

Caboose goes away, and Grif tries to breathe again, but before he can even get that far Simmons kisses him.

“Um… round two?” Simmons whispers.

“… Tower’s still going, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, uh. We are locked in here.”

“Right.”

“Might as well, I guess.”

“Right! Let’s uh— _Grif!_ ”

Grif, mouth full of Simmons’s dick, says nothing in response to that, but he might smirk a little.

* * *

 

_Across the base…_

“Wait… Caboose, don’t those closets only lock from the inside?”

“Yes, but I didn’t want to tell them that, Tucker. It would be rude.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope folks enjoyed! I'm on tumblr @secretlystephaniebrown if you want to hang out with me there! 
> 
> The last bit is a shout out to an anon, who sent me a prompt with that suggestion while I was already writing this. HOPE YOU ENJOYED ANON.


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